War Zone City of Brussel, Apollo, 4th Month of Year 24
For a brief moment, I felt warm flesh pressed against my gloved knuckles, then a sickening groan and a cool breeze on my moist glove as I wrenched the knife out of the gut of a Bedlam officer. He was twice my height. Now he was gutted and dead on the ground. My heads-up display sensed movement on my six, so I turned, and, with a low kick, sent a tiny scrub warrior to the ground, my heavy boot compressing its stupid little chest. I put a bullet in its forehead. More movement at three and eleven o'clock; I somersaulted forward and rolled sideways, barely managing to come out in a crouch. I was dizzy and my muscles felt like gelatin, but I could make out the advancing forms of two more scrubs--I threw my knife as hard as I could at one, then I charged the other and impaled it on my bayonet.
I yanked my bloodied gun out of the oozing corpse and retrieved my knife, giving the area a brief survey as I placed the blade back in its gauntlet socket. I was shaking as I snapped a new magazine into my rifle, the--literally--dead silence surrounding me feeling more like a fleece blanket than a morbid ambiance. I clicked on my comlink.
"Sigma Two-Three checking in," I said. Calmly. Somehow, our number designations were our go-to names during battles like these.
"Somebody sounds smooth," Flare replied immediately. "For being in a hot zone, I mean."
"What hot zone?" I asked. "I killed them all."
"Bravo!" Flare said. His voice sounded jarbled as if he was running. "Wish I could say the same!"
"Cut the chatter," Storm said tersely.
Two seconds later, Tide said at a whisper: "Storm's proud of you. Really. He's being his usual compassionate self."
"Three-Seven," Storm chided, though gently. But when he used number designations for his own sister, we knew Squad Leader was still all business.
I could tell Tide was joking her brother, but I took it as a compliment. If anyone could translate Storm's brief sentiments, it was his sister. From her position on some nearby high skyscraper, I couldn't help but think that her whispers were like the voice of a guardian angel. Just as I was beginning to move on, my heads-up display's alarm went insane, and I was so startled that I barely had a moment to realize that another Bedlam officer had caught up with his buddy--then a distant shot in the silence, slightly delayed, sent the giant creature crumpling to the ground. I swallowed. "Thanks, Tide."
"I'm bored," she replied casually. She meant: "You're welcome."
She's saved my life more times than I can count. I only wish I could say the same.
"Shit! Son of a-- " Flare's transmission cut off. He must have forgotten his channel was open. Still, it made my stomach tighten; something was going wrong.
"Two-Three, rendezvous at the given coordinates. Now," Storm said through his teeth. Immediately a red dot appeared on my heads-up display, and a tiny arrow pointed me in the right direction. I was to travel directly over a pile of debris and pass two skyscrapers that appeared to have bites taken out of them like monolithic celery, then meet Storm on a street several blocks away. I started to run, my short marathon accompanied by the thunderous applause of Cross-X artillery fire to the west.
"Right," Storm said tersely as his introduction. I had barely stopped running and I was panting as he spoke. "Flare's under heavy fire. Tide's moving to cover him, and there's a VG Heavy Arms squadron en route to clear the area. We're both done here, so we're moving in too." As Storm finished, he finished loading his assault rifle and looked up at me. His eyes widened for a brief moment. "Goddamn, Puck."
I looked down at myself and gaped. I was covered in Bedlam blood and other such nonsense. "Uh..."
"Nice," Storm smirked. Only... it was sort of happy. Almost like a smile. My cheeks started to flush. Great, now I feel like a pre-teen girl! Well, who kills aliens. Lots of aliens.
"All right. We're off."
Having it in mind to run the whole way, both Storm and I were pleasantly surprised to come across an abandoned jeep. What made the discovery even better was, though battered, the jeep was still fully functional. Storm ordered me to take the wheel (which I was all too thrilled to do), and he took a seat beside me, looking uncharacteristically relaxed. I leaned around in the seat, started the engine, and I surveyed the dials and gauges. Low on gas, the check engine light was on... oh, and the passenger side door was missing. But otherwise it was fine. I gunned it, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Storm flinch, startled by the jarring jeep.
I just grinned and wheeled around a pile of rubble. Grey concrete was in crumbled piles and cracked walls--it was pretty damn easy to see that the poorly camouflaged green- and blue-skinned aliens were about ready to blow the brains out of the roaring jeep. The "brains" being Storm and I, of course. Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly realized that the passenger seat beside me was empty - then, as if to answer the question I was about to ask myself, the jeep's gun turret went off with an obvious rhythmic reply as to why Storm had vacated his seat.
I gunned it even harder. Nobody was going to stand between us and Flare, and certainly not while we had a set of wheels.
Whatever Bedlam didn't get mauled by the jeep's jagged tires were mowed down by Storm's expert gunning, and soon we found ourselves utterly surrounded by a forest of buildings. The battlefield was immediately different, and suddenly there were no sides to the battle--friend or foe could be anywhere and remain undetected by stories and stories of concrete. Loud mechanical noises filled our ears and then a roaring engine was above us as a mobile suit unit touched down on the city block right next to us. I braked and threw the jeep in reverse to meet it. Overhead, more mobile suits passed over us, moving in the direction of where Flare and other Cross-X forces had been pinned down.
"Kilo Five-Four to Sigma Oh-Five," said the pilot with great effort. It sounded as though a clawed hand had clenched over his throat. I gazed up at the mobile suit, its humanoid robotic body painted purple and yellow and scratched with various battle wounds, but looking as healthy as ever, unlike the pilot inside. The suit's reflective "eyes" were flashing intermittently, its tiny cameras and sensors taking in the surroundings and undoubtedly picking up signals from others of the Kilo unit.
"Sigma Oh-Five responding," Storm said quickly, then immediately asked: "Are you hurt?"
I was taken aback by the pilot's alleged state until I saw that the mobile suit's "torso" had been bashed in and dented, practically undetectable with the dark purple paint. I squinted, wondering what could have dished out that sort of punishment without the result of explosion damage.
"Yeah," the pilot croaked. The mobile suit started shaking slightly as gears were unable to thrust open the cockpit. Storm and I were speechless, helpless - then the pilot must have found an emergency release, because the cockpit doors popped open.
And out came the pilot, who was not holding onto the proper lowering gear. He fell and hit the concrete with a sickening "crunch." Storm and I leapt from the jeep and sprinted to his aid. There was very little external trauma, but I didn't need to be the squad's medic to know that the fall hadn't done the pilot any service. Upon further inspection, it was apparent that the pilot had stopped breathing. No pulse.
Storm watched helplessly as I tried my hardest to perform CPR to revive the pilot (and then what?--no extraction here). Storm fidgeting as he stood and tried to stay still so I could concentrate. No luck.
I didn't have to tell Storm the obvious. I simply grabbed the ID tags from the pilot's belt and put them in a compartment on my own belt, the loss of precious life such an instant and inevitable thing in this world that it was as routine as brushing our teeth. My gut still felt it, though--the loss, that is. The pain. I stood up and looked at Storm, awaiting orders, deadpan.
He nodded, presumably out of approval, the subtly noticeable length of the nod differentiating the compliment from an acknowledgment. It meant I'd done a good job. I tried my hardest. "Get in the mobile suit, Puck. Let's get Flare out of there."
I wanted to ask where Storm would go from there, but I knew it would be to rescue Flare. It seemed unfair that I would be immersed in an armored suit, though the dead pilot was proof that even a mobile suit wasn't safe in this battle. "Yes, sir!"
The lift cable had lowered when the emergency hatch had opened. I stepped into the loop and held onto the cable, giving the corded wire several tugs until it began to lift. I situated myself awkwardly in the pilot's seat. The hatch closed with audible effort from the marred gears. I grimaced. The space under my thigh in between armor plates could feel the warmth left by the suit's old pilot.
I keyed up the mobile suit's systems and grabbed the controls.
"Everything look all right?" Storm asked.
"It's shiny, sir."
I gunned the engines and the mobile suit rose into the air. Everything sounded good, but as the suit's torso swiveled, I could hear some strange grinding noises that made me a little worried. The pull of gravity on my gut, however, made me quickly forget.
"I'll meet you there," Storm said, the roar of the jeep's engine in the background.
I was looking through two sets of heads-up displays, now, and it was beginning to overload my senses. I took in the flashing icons and images and gauges all at once, my brain processing the information that flowed into it like a tumultuous storm. It made me mildly dizzy. With a click of my back molars, I turned off my helmet's busy display, and I looked at the cockpit's screens alone as I had been taught in training.
I engaged in the Kilo squadron's channel and quickly introduced myself. "Kilo Squad Lead, this is Sigma Two-Three."
"Kilo One-Oh copying, Sigma Two-Three," a distracted woman answered.
"I've taken over the MS Unit of Four-Five and I'm moving to the RV location right now."
"Roger," Kilo One-Oh said, sounding somewhat exasperated. "Where did--" She seemed to hesitate, then said instead: "See you at the RV."
I maneuvered the mobile suit over the cityscape, watching all of the sensor screens diligently. Small Bedlam forces were moving across city blocks, and some even had the nerve to direct fire at me. What a waste. On top of the tough alloy armor, the suit had an energy shield, and really the only threat to its integrity besides anti-aircraft rounds was a mobile suit of the same (or better) caliber. So I deduced that they had no semblance of anti-aircraft guns, and ignored them. With a press of the foot pedals, I engaged the drives to get to the RV point and, subsequently, Flare.
I was dreading about the low chance of Flare's survival when the proximity alarm began to blare, and suddenly I found my own life in jeopardy. The view screen showed another mobile suit, one not of humanoid design, and therefore Bedlam. The mobile suit was grotesque in design to human standards, its "head" piece long and snout-like, arm attachments long, bulky, and ending in sharp, crab-like claws that were ostensible grappling apparatuses. Its variously-sized cannons were mounted on its shoulders and forearms, and I didn't quite have the observational skills to take in much else.
My heart rate spiked, knuckles whitening as my hands clamped tightly to the controls. I had never really fought against another mobile suit before.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Tethers: The Catacombs
Tethers: The Catacombs
A quick author's note: I'm reposting this chapter after making some minor changes to it, mostly pertaining to the change in uniform for the squad, as well as some other edits. This is what I plan to make the first 'chapter' of my Tethers compilation.
"Can you hear them?"
I made sure my com was off before I heaved a sigh, trying uselessly to ignore my squad mate's question. I squeezed my eyes shut, making the darkness around me disappear under my eyelids. Yes, I could hear them--feel them, too. The resounding "boom" was felt in the pit of my stomach, the enemy's artillery fire above us both destroying our comrades and our resolve. Well, mine, at least. I could only hope that the others weren't as nervous as I was.
Movement, the sound of armor and under lays rustling, roused me and I watched a dark figure rise. I didn't need to shroud the tunnel in my helmet's spotlight to know it was Storm, the biggest of us by far. He was only two years older than me, but he seemed much more mature, both in his size and marble demeanor, cold and unbreakable.
"We'd better get moving, then. It's time," he said in response to Flare's question, which came somewhere from up the tunnel. Storm had the grizzled voice of a soldier, though he'd only seen as much combat as the rest of us, which was hardly a boastful sum. "I'll lead. Puck, you cover my six."
I nodded, then, realizing he couldn't see me, said, "Yessir." He began to move and I followed, hefting my sniper rifle on my shoulder. Taking up the rear was never a glamorous job, but it was a task I could easily do. I have a tendency to freeze up when I'm surprised, unlike Storm, who reacts with guns blazing.
At length, Storm stopped. I shuffled to a halt behind him. He was holding up a fist, which meant his special motion sensors picked up unfriendly contacts ahead. I swallowed as he pointed to the adjacent tunnel to our right, then his finger pointed up the tunnel. I had to play sniper.
Wishing Tide was with us as I positioned myself using the corner as cover from enemy fire, I readied my sniper rifle to wait for the oncoming onslaught.
It came faster than I anticipated. I thrust the butt of the rifle under my arm, nearly knocking myself in the jaw with the sight. They were fast--one was practically on top of Storm, limbs swinging, though Storm's assault rifle was rapidly tearing mucky holes through its chest cavity. I aimed and fired a headshot, and the beast went down in a heap. The shot resonated, and time seemed to halt as we tried to make sense of the grotesque heap of flesh at Storm's feet. There was a shriek--a roar--something that sounded foul or pained, and I had the next creature in my sights and it fell. Then I scoped for more.
It felt like hours, but it was over in less than three minutes. Storm yanked the clip of ammunition out of his rifle and slapped in a new one. I lowered my sniper, also sliding in reloads, and I could feel my hands shaking with adrenaline. Glancing up, I noticed that even Storm looked pale in the face.
"What were those things?" he whispered.
The corpse at his feet was liquefying, decaying at a tremendously fast rate. And it smelled, too, with the stench of rotting tissue. I covered my mouth and nose with a gloved hand, then I tentatively knelt down and examined it, trying to find any discernable qualities amidst the gore. Its head was absent from its neck, which I suspected was a result of the sniper slug I rather forcibly inserted into its cranium. Nearly gagging, I rose, shaking my head at Storm. "I have no idea."
Storm was busy sopping blood and what I supposed were pieces of flesh from his armored suit, using a specialized rag made just for the job. Mellites, part of the Bedlam Army, the enemy we should have encountered, were attracted by the scent of their comrades' blood from great radiuses, so it was best not to roam about bathed in it. Whether or not these things were mellites, it was best not to take any unnecessary risks. Storm nodded, no longer visibly perturbed. "We need to find the others."
We weren't allowed to use our coms in the Catacomb Tunnels, though Flare had contacted us earlier right after we split. No one could be certain of what Bedlam system monitored the air waves at any given time, making electronic communications, even verbal communications very precarious. I accessed my mental map of the Catacombs, thinking about where we started and how many turns we had made. The cavernous tunnels honey combed underground, in criss-crossing patterns like the board of a game Sarge showed me called Tic-Tac-Toe. Only the map looked as thought someone didn't draw the game board with straight lines, the tunnels curved, and many of the paths led to dead ends, creating a maze. There were two ways through it, and Storm and I were covering one, Flare and Tide on the other. Our rendezvous point was at the end – and so was my personal battle, the Bedlam reactor core control center.
Storm halted again, fist held up. We were nowhere near an intersecting tunnel, which meant no cover around corners. Storm and I dug in, preparing ourselves, unsure if this onslaught will fail to use projectile weapons like the last one, or if we would even come in contact with the same monstrosities. At that point, I wasn't sure which enemy was worse. Six or seven of the same misshapen creatures approached us, and I held up my sniper to start picking them off. Through my sight, I was able to observe them for the split second before I blew off their heads. They had insect-like, bulging, red eyes with a reptilian snout, broad shoulders with disproportionately large arms, thin, crouched legs…
"They're mellites," Storm and I breathed in unison, the last of the creatures falling, dead.
"Only three times as large," I continued as we looked at each other. Mellites were tough, little aliens only about a meter high. But these things were taller than Storm, and more than able to contend with him.
"Genetically enhanced, perhaps?" Storm speculated quietly.
"Defective is more likely. Their flesh is already rotting away." I could vaguely feel moisture through my gloves, and I was sickened to realize that they were covered in torn tissue. I immediately wondered if the flesh was infectious, but I kept that grotesque curiosity to myself. Storm hummed in thought, the deep rumble in his throat simply churning with calculated thoughts that he didn't vocalize, then we started moving once more. We didn't dare to speak more or stay in that one place for too long. The truth was, I was scared shitless. It was one thing to fight normal, living enemies, albeit with plasma pistols, but it was another to fight nauseating undead.
We reached the rendezvous point after three more similar encounters with the freak mellites, but Flare and Tide weren't there. More mellites, however, were, and they greeted us with howls and swinging, clawed arms. I knocked a few off right away, but there were a lot, many at close range and hard to target for headshots. Enveloped in my sight, I didn't realize one was coming at my side, and I took a blow to the back. The shield breach alarm was trilling in my ears as I tried to move, but it felt like the hit had turned my insides into a bloody sauce.
"Puck!" Storm yelled. "Get up! Goddamn it, get up!"
I couldn't, so I rolled away, onto my back. The creature's fist smashed the ground and cracked the surface where I had been moments before. My sniper, which my frozen fingers gripped for dear life, hadn't been dropped, but I couldn't get an angle when I tried lifting the rifle. Then a shot cut through my fear, the creature's head, and it fell. Before I could react more than realizing it was Tide's doing, I was hefted to my feet.
"Tide'll cover you," Flare said after steadying me, surprisingly calm as his shotgun tore through a mellite-zombie. "Get to the core."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I could even move. Then, all doubt left my mind as I painfully ducked another swing of a mellite, narrowly dodging. I crawled away, heard a grunt and the thud of a boot connecting with flesh, then a shotgun shell detonation. Once on my feet, I was running somewhat sluggishly, tuning out the booms of combat that rattled my being. Half stumbling up to a computer operating console, my fingers danced shakily across the touch screen.
I wondered if they could hear us, too.
A quick author's note: I'm reposting this chapter after making some minor changes to it, mostly pertaining to the change in uniform for the squad, as well as some other edits. This is what I plan to make the first 'chapter' of my Tethers compilation.
"Can you hear them?"
I made sure my com was off before I heaved a sigh, trying uselessly to ignore my squad mate's question. I squeezed my eyes shut, making the darkness around me disappear under my eyelids. Yes, I could hear them--feel them, too. The resounding "boom" was felt in the pit of my stomach, the enemy's artillery fire above us both destroying our comrades and our resolve. Well, mine, at least. I could only hope that the others weren't as nervous as I was.
Movement, the sound of armor and under lays rustling, roused me and I watched a dark figure rise. I didn't need to shroud the tunnel in my helmet's spotlight to know it was Storm, the biggest of us by far. He was only two years older than me, but he seemed much more mature, both in his size and marble demeanor, cold and unbreakable.
"We'd better get moving, then. It's time," he said in response to Flare's question, which came somewhere from up the tunnel. Storm had the grizzled voice of a soldier, though he'd only seen as much combat as the rest of us, which was hardly a boastful sum. "I'll lead. Puck, you cover my six."
I nodded, then, realizing he couldn't see me, said, "Yessir." He began to move and I followed, hefting my sniper rifle on my shoulder. Taking up the rear was never a glamorous job, but it was a task I could easily do. I have a tendency to freeze up when I'm surprised, unlike Storm, who reacts with guns blazing.
At length, Storm stopped. I shuffled to a halt behind him. He was holding up a fist, which meant his special motion sensors picked up unfriendly contacts ahead. I swallowed as he pointed to the adjacent tunnel to our right, then his finger pointed up the tunnel. I had to play sniper.
Wishing Tide was with us as I positioned myself using the corner as cover from enemy fire, I readied my sniper rifle to wait for the oncoming onslaught.
It came faster than I anticipated. I thrust the butt of the rifle under my arm, nearly knocking myself in the jaw with the sight. They were fast--one was practically on top of Storm, limbs swinging, though Storm's assault rifle was rapidly tearing mucky holes through its chest cavity. I aimed and fired a headshot, and the beast went down in a heap. The shot resonated, and time seemed to halt as we tried to make sense of the grotesque heap of flesh at Storm's feet. There was a shriek--a roar--something that sounded foul or pained, and I had the next creature in my sights and it fell. Then I scoped for more.
It felt like hours, but it was over in less than three minutes. Storm yanked the clip of ammunition out of his rifle and slapped in a new one. I lowered my sniper, also sliding in reloads, and I could feel my hands shaking with adrenaline. Glancing up, I noticed that even Storm looked pale in the face.
"What were those things?" he whispered.
The corpse at his feet was liquefying, decaying at a tremendously fast rate. And it smelled, too, with the stench of rotting tissue. I covered my mouth and nose with a gloved hand, then I tentatively knelt down and examined it, trying to find any discernable qualities amidst the gore. Its head was absent from its neck, which I suspected was a result of the sniper slug I rather forcibly inserted into its cranium. Nearly gagging, I rose, shaking my head at Storm. "I have no idea."
Storm was busy sopping blood and what I supposed were pieces of flesh from his armored suit, using a specialized rag made just for the job. Mellites, part of the Bedlam Army, the enemy we should have encountered, were attracted by the scent of their comrades' blood from great radiuses, so it was best not to roam about bathed in it. Whether or not these things were mellites, it was best not to take any unnecessary risks. Storm nodded, no longer visibly perturbed. "We need to find the others."
We weren't allowed to use our coms in the Catacomb Tunnels, though Flare had contacted us earlier right after we split. No one could be certain of what Bedlam system monitored the air waves at any given time, making electronic communications, even verbal communications very precarious. I accessed my mental map of the Catacombs, thinking about where we started and how many turns we had made. The cavernous tunnels honey combed underground, in criss-crossing patterns like the board of a game Sarge showed me called Tic-Tac-Toe. Only the map looked as thought someone didn't draw the game board with straight lines, the tunnels curved, and many of the paths led to dead ends, creating a maze. There were two ways through it, and Storm and I were covering one, Flare and Tide on the other. Our rendezvous point was at the end – and so was my personal battle, the Bedlam reactor core control center.
Storm halted again, fist held up. We were nowhere near an intersecting tunnel, which meant no cover around corners. Storm and I dug in, preparing ourselves, unsure if this onslaught will fail to use projectile weapons like the last one, or if we would even come in contact with the same monstrosities. At that point, I wasn't sure which enemy was worse. Six or seven of the same misshapen creatures approached us, and I held up my sniper to start picking them off. Through my sight, I was able to observe them for the split second before I blew off their heads. They had insect-like, bulging, red eyes with a reptilian snout, broad shoulders with disproportionately large arms, thin, crouched legs…
"They're mellites," Storm and I breathed in unison, the last of the creatures falling, dead.
"Only three times as large," I continued as we looked at each other. Mellites were tough, little aliens only about a meter high. But these things were taller than Storm, and more than able to contend with him.
"Genetically enhanced, perhaps?" Storm speculated quietly.
"Defective is more likely. Their flesh is already rotting away." I could vaguely feel moisture through my gloves, and I was sickened to realize that they were covered in torn tissue. I immediately wondered if the flesh was infectious, but I kept that grotesque curiosity to myself. Storm hummed in thought, the deep rumble in his throat simply churning with calculated thoughts that he didn't vocalize, then we started moving once more. We didn't dare to speak more or stay in that one place for too long. The truth was, I was scared shitless. It was one thing to fight normal, living enemies, albeit with plasma pistols, but it was another to fight nauseating undead.
We reached the rendezvous point after three more similar encounters with the freak mellites, but Flare and Tide weren't there. More mellites, however, were, and they greeted us with howls and swinging, clawed arms. I knocked a few off right away, but there were a lot, many at close range and hard to target for headshots. Enveloped in my sight, I didn't realize one was coming at my side, and I took a blow to the back. The shield breach alarm was trilling in my ears as I tried to move, but it felt like the hit had turned my insides into a bloody sauce.
"Puck!" Storm yelled. "Get up! Goddamn it, get up!"
I couldn't, so I rolled away, onto my back. The creature's fist smashed the ground and cracked the surface where I had been moments before. My sniper, which my frozen fingers gripped for dear life, hadn't been dropped, but I couldn't get an angle when I tried lifting the rifle. Then a shot cut through my fear, the creature's head, and it fell. Before I could react more than realizing it was Tide's doing, I was hefted to my feet.
"Tide'll cover you," Flare said after steadying me, surprisingly calm as his shotgun tore through a mellite-zombie. "Get to the core."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I could even move. Then, all doubt left my mind as I painfully ducked another swing of a mellite, narrowly dodging. I crawled away, heard a grunt and the thud of a boot connecting with flesh, then a shotgun shell detonation. Once on my feet, I was running somewhat sluggishly, tuning out the booms of combat that rattled my being. Half stumbling up to a computer operating console, my fingers danced shakily across the touch screen.
I wondered if they could hear us, too.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Tethers: Valentine's Day
Tethers: Valentine's Day
To say that Tide was unimpressed would be an understatement.
Flare was trying very hard to bench press one hundred and sixty pounds, and Tide was spotting him with a look of such boredom that she could have been in cell biology class. She counted for him until he reached twelve and had to cease, and she helped him put the dumbbell back onto its rack and watched him sit up.
Flare grinned triumphantly. "Increased the weight by ten pounds and did the same amount of sets as last time!"
"Woohoo," Tide said without any inflection whatsoever. She wasn't glaring, though, which Flare didn't notice--but Tide knew subconsciously that it was because she was intrigued by the brightness of his grin. It seemed silly to take interest in one of Flare's default expressions, but there was something boyish and oddly innocent by this tiny victory that Tide just couldn't glower at him.
Flare got up from the bench with a flourish and made exaggerated stretching motions while Tide took his place on her back. Flare began removing weights from the dumbbell. "You're at, what, one hundred now?"
"One hundred and five," Tide corrected him coldly. It didn't settle well with her that she had the lowest bench press weight, but she couldn't help it that her bone structure made her look as though she could blow away in the wind.
"One-oh-five," Flare repeated without a humorous quip about her skinny arms. Tide was surprised. Having finished adjusting the weights, Flare stood behind Tide and assumed the spotting position. His face was neutral, very calm, and natural-looking, no hint of a smile or a funny face to break her concentration. It would not have been such a strange occurrence if Storm had been with them as he usually was--but he had a meeting with Sarge. And Flare acting serious without the presence of Storm was something worth noticing.
Tide finished her set and put the dumbbell back with the help of Flare, who then proceeded to gently place his hand on her back between her shoulder blades as she sat up. Tide checked the impulse to direct her attention toward him, instead keeping her surprise to herself. She stood and walked without looking at Flare to the free weights by the mirror, taking a ten-pound weight in each hand.
Flare paused at the rack of weights and pursed his lips at Tide. "Don't you want to take a little rest first?"
"No," Tide grumbled, disagreeing only on the principle that Flare was trying to parent her. She lifted the weights so that her arms were parallel to the ground, really feeling her muscles strain. Flare's eyes were on her from the mirror, but she maintained her routine of ignoring his odd behavior for fear of discovering something she didn't want to know.
Tide was in mid-lift when Flare walked behind her and placed his hands on her shoulder blades. "You're bending your spine with you lift," he pointed out, still watching her through the mirror. He was just under a head taller than her, and it was very obvious by the way he was standing. Tide didn't like feeling dwarfed, but she didn't move. In fact, she lowered her arms and froze.
Her heart was pounding. Flare was so sincere, so serious, and so not like him. And yet Tide couldn't help but like this sudden change. Flare grinned a little at her, his hands still gently placed on her back. "I'm surprised you haven't kicked me in the balls yet," he said.
"Me, too," Tide replied. Her voice didn't sound like her own, it was just above a whisper. Her senses were filling with an odor she knew should have repulsed her, but somehow, it was gripping--every time she breathed out, she was desperate to breathe in again to pick up the scent.
Who the hell am I kidding?
Tide set the weights down on the floor and turned toward Flare, who now looked at her directly. There was a moment when her eyes searched his before she pressed herself against him and kissed him on the mouth.
---
Puck enjoyed Tuesday afternoons. There was an extended break from training and classes, and Storm, Tide, and Flare often went to the gym to get some sets in before dinner. Puck, however, took advantage of the empty room to blast music from his console and search the Net.
People still tried to bother him, though. He could at least take solace in knowing he didn't have to get up to let them in the door; all he had to do was push the button at his bedside to let unwanted visitors enter the room.
Here came one now.
Puck didn't look away from his console as he hit the button, causing the door to slide open. Whoever it was, they sure were quick to enter.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Puck!" said a cheerful voice. Puck turned off the music and pushed away his console, smiling as Ari sat next to him on his bed and gave him a small, homemade card.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he replied, opening the card. It had red and pink cutout hearts pasted inside, and in florid calligraphy, it read: "You're a great catch!" and it was signed in the same, neat handwriting: "Love, Ari."
Puck looked up to see Ari looking expectantly at him, and over the past few weeks, he had picked up on the fact that she craved affirmation from others. He was sort of speechless for a moment, unsure of what it all meant--he was a catch? She signed it with love? Did she do that for everyone she had given a Valentine? Did she even give away others?
"Do you like it?" Ari asked tentatively.
"Oh," Puck said, snapping out of his thoughts. "Yes, thank you." He grinned sheepishly.
Ari giggled and threw her arms around Puck, who awkwardly returned the hug, his mind racing and reminding him that his bed was messy, he hadn't showered yet, and his hair looked the same as it did when he woke up this morning. He was fully unprepared, and he didn't even realize it was Valentine's Day until Ari had come in--he hadn't anything to give her in return!
She was busy resting her cheek against his shoulder as his thoughts spiraled, and he figured he better say something. "Hey, uhm, sorry I don't have anything for you."
"Don't be silly," Ari said, looking up at Puck. "I didn't expect anyone else to care that it was Valentine's Day."
Puck wasn't used to hugging someone for as long as he was, but Ari didn't seem intent on letting go any time soon. "Sorry my bed is a mess," Puck said.
"What? Oh, geez, Puck, I don't care."
"Okay. Uh, sorry," Puck said limply.
Ari pulled away and looked intensely at Puck. "Are you uncomfortable?"
"No. No, of course not," Puck said, scoffing.
Ari grinned. "So you're always this awkward."
"I figured you would have picked up on that by now," Puck said with a wry smile.
"I have," Ari said, kissing him on the cheek.
Simultaneously, the door slid open and Storm appeared. Ari immediately withdrew from Puck and stood up as if she had been sitting on hot coals, and Puck did the same--only he didn't quite get to his feet, his head having hit the top of the bunk.
Storm looked annoyed but otherwise uninterested, to no one's surprise. "Where are Tide and Flare?" he asked Puck.
Puck was rubbing the sore spot on his head. "I dunno, Storm. The weight room? Weren't you with them?"
"No, I was with Sarge. I'm going to go find them," Storm said tersely. He gave a nod of acknowledgment to Ari, not making eye contact with her, perhaps out of sheer awkwardness. He left in a hurry.
Puck looked at Ari warily, and she had her mouth covered with her hands. For a moment, he feared she was upset, but she was actually laughing.
"I think he's more awkward than you," she said.
---
Tide shoved Flare away and stared at him, both of them breathing heavier than normal. That idiosyncratic grin of his crept onto his flushed face, and Tide felt like she could have hit him. The only thing he had done wrong, though, was smile.
"Can I just say--"
"No," Tide cut him off, lifting the weights that had been discarded and placing them back on their stand.
"So I can't--"
"Nope," Tide said again. Without telling Flare where she was going, she shouldered past him and headed for the door of the weight room.
"It was hot, Tide!" Flare said after her. Her only acknowledgment was an obscene hand gesture.
Have I gone nutters? Kissing Flare practically in public like that?
Anyone monitoring the security feed in the weight room was probably very entertained, having just watched two hormonal teenagers lock lips for a good ten minutes. Tide was flustered and confused as she strode toward the locker rooms to be alone. Did she really want that? Did he really want it? In all honesty, Tide had never been kissed before, but there was something so genuine and so needy about the whole thing that she couldn't quite ascertain that the exchange was random.
So what did that mean? That her incessant repulsions of everything that was Flare had actually been some sort of subconscious cover over an insatiable lust for him? Yes, lust had to be the word. Love was too strong of a sentiment toward her squad mate, someone she had seen wet his pants when he was six years old, someone who snored loudly and talked in his sleep every other night. No, Tide didn't love Flare. Flare couldn't love. He was a notorious womanizer (as much as a busy soldier could be, anyway), and when he wasn't kissing random girls in abandoned hallways, at least five girls were pining after him. No, Flare wasn't one for emotional attachment. And that was all right because neither was Tide.
But it would be absolutely unacceptable if Tide discovered she had become one of Flare's "squeezes" that he could summon at his every whim. Tide refused to be at his beck and call, and she may have just blown her chances of avoiding that by this random display of affection--a word seemingly too mild to describe what had just happened between them.
Tide saw Storm approaching her and she stopped dead as if she had forgotten where she was going. His expression moved from dogged determination to bewilderment. "Tide? You okay?"
Tide stiffened. So she looked visibly shaken. Wonderful. "Yeah, Storm. I'm fine. Just had an argument with Flare, that's all." Not a total lie. Whatever that kiss was, it didn't exactly flow like a well-mannered conversation. Storm had had his suspicions about Flare and Tide, one of those hunches that they argued too much to not be feigning dislike. But he'd believe her if only to avoid a conversation.
Storm stared at her a moment before he nodded. "Well, I had some things to discuss, but they're not that important. Go clean up."
Tide never felt like her brother was ordering her around; he simply told her to do things she intended to do to begin with. "See you." She brushed passed him and resumed her course for the locker room showers, not worried that he would be suspicious that she wasn't going to the room. Sometimes when she fought with Flare, they wouldn't speak to each other outside of training for days. Of course she would avoid him.
This was completely, totally normal. Except for the image of Flare standing inches away from her, smiling down at her in a way she'd never seen before. It was burned into her mind as if she'd been staring at the sun too long. It was unsettling, and very far from normal.
---
Puck and Ari had settled down on his bed, their backs facing the door. Ari seemed to like resting her head on his shoulder, and Puck had gotten used to the feeling of someone other than one of his squad being that close to him. He even found the guts to put his arm loosely around her shoulders, and his stomach settled into the silence when he realized he didn't always have to talk to someone to avoid having an awkward encounter. Yes, he finally felt comfortable sitting with a girl like this.
But were all couples' Valentine's Days so...mild?
Ari gave Puck a small squeeze right above his knee. He hadn't even noticed that her hand had been resting there. "I need to go," she said quietly, straightening. She looked expectantly at Puck, who looked back at her and smiled gently. There was a moment where Puck simply admired her face and the way her strawberry blonde curls flopped effortlessly into her face.
"Well," she said as she stood, looking suddenly sullen, "I'll see you at dinner."
"All right." Puck got up and hesitated, a sort of awkward pause when he moved but stopped himself, then he went in and hugged her. When they parted, Ari gave him a small smile that she didn't seem to mean, then left the dorm. With a sigh, Puck sat down on his bed again and went back to his console. He had this nagging feeling that he had done something wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Puck ran his hand through his hair and stared blankly at the console's screen, having no real interest in the article he had been reading before Ari came in. The door to the dorm slid open and Flare came in without greeting him, and he climbed onto his bunk above Puck.
"Hey, man, aren't you going to shower? You stink to high heaven," said Puck.
"I'm going to sleep. Don't wake me up for dinner."
Puck shrugged to himself. "Okay."
The two boys sat in silence on their beds, Flare above Puck, and became lost in their own respective thoughts.
To say that Tide was unimpressed would be an understatement.
Flare was trying very hard to bench press one hundred and sixty pounds, and Tide was spotting him with a look of such boredom that she could have been in cell biology class. She counted for him until he reached twelve and had to cease, and she helped him put the dumbbell back onto its rack and watched him sit up.
Flare grinned triumphantly. "Increased the weight by ten pounds and did the same amount of sets as last time!"
"Woohoo," Tide said without any inflection whatsoever. She wasn't glaring, though, which Flare didn't notice--but Tide knew subconsciously that it was because she was intrigued by the brightness of his grin. It seemed silly to take interest in one of Flare's default expressions, but there was something boyish and oddly innocent by this tiny victory that Tide just couldn't glower at him.
Flare got up from the bench with a flourish and made exaggerated stretching motions while Tide took his place on her back. Flare began removing weights from the dumbbell. "You're at, what, one hundred now?"
"One hundred and five," Tide corrected him coldly. It didn't settle well with her that she had the lowest bench press weight, but she couldn't help it that her bone structure made her look as though she could blow away in the wind.
"One-oh-five," Flare repeated without a humorous quip about her skinny arms. Tide was surprised. Having finished adjusting the weights, Flare stood behind Tide and assumed the spotting position. His face was neutral, very calm, and natural-looking, no hint of a smile or a funny face to break her concentration. It would not have been such a strange occurrence if Storm had been with them as he usually was--but he had a meeting with Sarge. And Flare acting serious without the presence of Storm was something worth noticing.
Tide finished her set and put the dumbbell back with the help of Flare, who then proceeded to gently place his hand on her back between her shoulder blades as she sat up. Tide checked the impulse to direct her attention toward him, instead keeping her surprise to herself. She stood and walked without looking at Flare to the free weights by the mirror, taking a ten-pound weight in each hand.
Flare paused at the rack of weights and pursed his lips at Tide. "Don't you want to take a little rest first?"
"No," Tide grumbled, disagreeing only on the principle that Flare was trying to parent her. She lifted the weights so that her arms were parallel to the ground, really feeling her muscles strain. Flare's eyes were on her from the mirror, but she maintained her routine of ignoring his odd behavior for fear of discovering something she didn't want to know.
Tide was in mid-lift when Flare walked behind her and placed his hands on her shoulder blades. "You're bending your spine with you lift," he pointed out, still watching her through the mirror. He was just under a head taller than her, and it was very obvious by the way he was standing. Tide didn't like feeling dwarfed, but she didn't move. In fact, she lowered her arms and froze.
Her heart was pounding. Flare was so sincere, so serious, and so not like him. And yet Tide couldn't help but like this sudden change. Flare grinned a little at her, his hands still gently placed on her back. "I'm surprised you haven't kicked me in the balls yet," he said.
"Me, too," Tide replied. Her voice didn't sound like her own, it was just above a whisper. Her senses were filling with an odor she knew should have repulsed her, but somehow, it was gripping--every time she breathed out, she was desperate to breathe in again to pick up the scent.
Who the hell am I kidding?
Tide set the weights down on the floor and turned toward Flare, who now looked at her directly. There was a moment when her eyes searched his before she pressed herself against him and kissed him on the mouth.
---
Puck enjoyed Tuesday afternoons. There was an extended break from training and classes, and Storm, Tide, and Flare often went to the gym to get some sets in before dinner. Puck, however, took advantage of the empty room to blast music from his console and search the Net.
People still tried to bother him, though. He could at least take solace in knowing he didn't have to get up to let them in the door; all he had to do was push the button at his bedside to let unwanted visitors enter the room.
Here came one now.
Puck didn't look away from his console as he hit the button, causing the door to slide open. Whoever it was, they sure were quick to enter.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Puck!" said a cheerful voice. Puck turned off the music and pushed away his console, smiling as Ari sat next to him on his bed and gave him a small, homemade card.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he replied, opening the card. It had red and pink cutout hearts pasted inside, and in florid calligraphy, it read: "You're a great catch!" and it was signed in the same, neat handwriting: "Love, Ari."
Puck looked up to see Ari looking expectantly at him, and over the past few weeks, he had picked up on the fact that she craved affirmation from others. He was sort of speechless for a moment, unsure of what it all meant--he was a catch? She signed it with love? Did she do that for everyone she had given a Valentine? Did she even give away others?
"Do you like it?" Ari asked tentatively.
"Oh," Puck said, snapping out of his thoughts. "Yes, thank you." He grinned sheepishly.
Ari giggled and threw her arms around Puck, who awkwardly returned the hug, his mind racing and reminding him that his bed was messy, he hadn't showered yet, and his hair looked the same as it did when he woke up this morning. He was fully unprepared, and he didn't even realize it was Valentine's Day until Ari had come in--he hadn't anything to give her in return!
She was busy resting her cheek against his shoulder as his thoughts spiraled, and he figured he better say something. "Hey, uhm, sorry I don't have anything for you."
"Don't be silly," Ari said, looking up at Puck. "I didn't expect anyone else to care that it was Valentine's Day."
Puck wasn't used to hugging someone for as long as he was, but Ari didn't seem intent on letting go any time soon. "Sorry my bed is a mess," Puck said.
"What? Oh, geez, Puck, I don't care."
"Okay. Uh, sorry," Puck said limply.
Ari pulled away and looked intensely at Puck. "Are you uncomfortable?"
"No. No, of course not," Puck said, scoffing.
Ari grinned. "So you're always this awkward."
"I figured you would have picked up on that by now," Puck said with a wry smile.
"I have," Ari said, kissing him on the cheek.
Simultaneously, the door slid open and Storm appeared. Ari immediately withdrew from Puck and stood up as if she had been sitting on hot coals, and Puck did the same--only he didn't quite get to his feet, his head having hit the top of the bunk.
Storm looked annoyed but otherwise uninterested, to no one's surprise. "Where are Tide and Flare?" he asked Puck.
Puck was rubbing the sore spot on his head. "I dunno, Storm. The weight room? Weren't you with them?"
"No, I was with Sarge. I'm going to go find them," Storm said tersely. He gave a nod of acknowledgment to Ari, not making eye contact with her, perhaps out of sheer awkwardness. He left in a hurry.
Puck looked at Ari warily, and she had her mouth covered with her hands. For a moment, he feared she was upset, but she was actually laughing.
"I think he's more awkward than you," she said.
---
Tide shoved Flare away and stared at him, both of them breathing heavier than normal. That idiosyncratic grin of his crept onto his flushed face, and Tide felt like she could have hit him. The only thing he had done wrong, though, was smile.
"Can I just say--"
"No," Tide cut him off, lifting the weights that had been discarded and placing them back on their stand.
"So I can't--"
"Nope," Tide said again. Without telling Flare where she was going, she shouldered past him and headed for the door of the weight room.
"It was hot, Tide!" Flare said after her. Her only acknowledgment was an obscene hand gesture.
Have I gone nutters? Kissing Flare practically in public like that?
Anyone monitoring the security feed in the weight room was probably very entertained, having just watched two hormonal teenagers lock lips for a good ten minutes. Tide was flustered and confused as she strode toward the locker rooms to be alone. Did she really want that? Did he really want it? In all honesty, Tide had never been kissed before, but there was something so genuine and so needy about the whole thing that she couldn't quite ascertain that the exchange was random.
So what did that mean? That her incessant repulsions of everything that was Flare had actually been some sort of subconscious cover over an insatiable lust for him? Yes, lust had to be the word. Love was too strong of a sentiment toward her squad mate, someone she had seen wet his pants when he was six years old, someone who snored loudly and talked in his sleep every other night. No, Tide didn't love Flare. Flare couldn't love. He was a notorious womanizer (as much as a busy soldier could be, anyway), and when he wasn't kissing random girls in abandoned hallways, at least five girls were pining after him. No, Flare wasn't one for emotional attachment. And that was all right because neither was Tide.
But it would be absolutely unacceptable if Tide discovered she had become one of Flare's "squeezes" that he could summon at his every whim. Tide refused to be at his beck and call, and she may have just blown her chances of avoiding that by this random display of affection--a word seemingly too mild to describe what had just happened between them.
Tide saw Storm approaching her and she stopped dead as if she had forgotten where she was going. His expression moved from dogged determination to bewilderment. "Tide? You okay?"
Tide stiffened. So she looked visibly shaken. Wonderful. "Yeah, Storm. I'm fine. Just had an argument with Flare, that's all." Not a total lie. Whatever that kiss was, it didn't exactly flow like a well-mannered conversation. Storm had had his suspicions about Flare and Tide, one of those hunches that they argued too much to not be feigning dislike. But he'd believe her if only to avoid a conversation.
Storm stared at her a moment before he nodded. "Well, I had some things to discuss, but they're not that important. Go clean up."
Tide never felt like her brother was ordering her around; he simply told her to do things she intended to do to begin with. "See you." She brushed passed him and resumed her course for the locker room showers, not worried that he would be suspicious that she wasn't going to the room. Sometimes when she fought with Flare, they wouldn't speak to each other outside of training for days. Of course she would avoid him.
This was completely, totally normal. Except for the image of Flare standing inches away from her, smiling down at her in a way she'd never seen before. It was burned into her mind as if she'd been staring at the sun too long. It was unsettling, and very far from normal.
---
Puck and Ari had settled down on his bed, their backs facing the door. Ari seemed to like resting her head on his shoulder, and Puck had gotten used to the feeling of someone other than one of his squad being that close to him. He even found the guts to put his arm loosely around her shoulders, and his stomach settled into the silence when he realized he didn't always have to talk to someone to avoid having an awkward encounter. Yes, he finally felt comfortable sitting with a girl like this.
But were all couples' Valentine's Days so...mild?
Ari gave Puck a small squeeze right above his knee. He hadn't even noticed that her hand had been resting there. "I need to go," she said quietly, straightening. She looked expectantly at Puck, who looked back at her and smiled gently. There was a moment where Puck simply admired her face and the way her strawberry blonde curls flopped effortlessly into her face.
"Well," she said as she stood, looking suddenly sullen, "I'll see you at dinner."
"All right." Puck got up and hesitated, a sort of awkward pause when he moved but stopped himself, then he went in and hugged her. When they parted, Ari gave him a small smile that she didn't seem to mean, then left the dorm. With a sigh, Puck sat down on his bed again and went back to his console. He had this nagging feeling that he had done something wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Puck ran his hand through his hair and stared blankly at the console's screen, having no real interest in the article he had been reading before Ari came in. The door to the dorm slid open and Flare came in without greeting him, and he climbed onto his bunk above Puck.
"Hey, man, aren't you going to shower? You stink to high heaven," said Puck.
"I'm going to sleep. Don't wake me up for dinner."
Puck shrugged to himself. "Okay."
The two boys sat in silence on their beds, Flare above Puck, and became lost in their own respective thoughts.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Tethers: Squad Leader
Tethers: Squad Leader
The lights went out at 2300 hours as they were programmed to do every night. A hazy, green light kept the room lightly illuminated as Puck typed quietly on his computer for another thirty minutes. Then, at length, Puck shut down the console and the light went away, and for the following ten seconds he was rustling around his bed until, finally, he settled in with a soft sigh. Flare turned over, his arm dangling unknowingly off of the side of the bunk, a disturbed snort escaping his sleepy throat. He made another noise, a sound that could have been a word, then he settled once more. Tide lied motionless on her own bunk, the back of her hand rested on her forehead, her other arm stretched across her stomach. She always slept through the night.
Storm listened for the calm, rhythmic breathing of Puck's sleep, and he knew he was alone in a room of four people. Storm quietly slipped his hands behind his head and stared at the bottom of Tide's bunked bed where there were pieces of paper taped so he could see them. Two were maps for their upcoming mission--their first mission; one was a picture of some blonde swimsuit model that Rooney found on the Net; and one was a piece of artwork on lined paper that read: "GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE!" It was written and decorated in various colors of highlighter marker, and in bottom corner, it was signed: "Love, Flare," in surprisingly elegant cursive. The latter two pictures were superfluous wastes of space that Storm meant to take down every time he got into bed, but somehow, every time he got up, the last moment his eyes looked at the bunk surface, the familiar pictures were just part of the scenery, the same as the fake wood-surface plastic stickers that covered much of the metal in the room.
The mind was a terrible thing to let get a hold of you. Storm spent many nights awake for hours after his exhausted squad mates went to sleep. Images played back through his head of the day's events like a holovid on repeat; he ran maneuvers over and over again, trying to remember where everyone was supposed to go, how fast they had to move, when to be silent, how to fight surreptitiously. Door breaching maneuvers, rapid entries, how to take a prisoner alive. Perfection could be obtained only through practice, Storm knew that much; but the squad would be so much more efficient if Storm could simply get everything right the first time.
It was easy for Storm to forget that Sarge was a kind man. The squads under his command loved him; the squad leaders did not. They respected Sergeant Elias Kadlec, and this respect was not earned from positive reinforcement in the form of candy rewards and pats on the head. The squad leaders respected Sarge because he demanded that they get the job done right. Nothing less than their best. And Storm wanted his best to be perfection.
That was what kept the squad alive. Perfection.
Storm squeezed his eyes shut, but only for a moment. He had a twisted feeling in his gut, the kind he felt nearly every night for the past several weeks that were leading up to Sigma Squad's first deployment. Tomorrow was another day of training. The pressure was mounting, collecting into a contorted heap in his gut. And Storm was no stranger to its presence. He was not in denial that such worrying was affecting him physically, either. Storm knew damn well that he could very easily literally worry himself sick. Many would see this as a glaring health problem--but Storm liked to think of it as a solution.
It was all part of the job description, after all.
The worry in his gut was his fuel for excellence. For perfection. It pained him, sometimes terribly, but to him it was a very small price to pay for perfection. For prowess and skill and progress and, above all, the lives of his squad. This pain was the siphoned danger from their mission, the invisible protector. Yes, it was a significantly small price.
Storm rose gingerly from the bed and ambled quietly to the lavatory, shutting the door and flicking on the light once it closed. He saw himself in the mirror, his sister's piercing blue eyes, his dark, buzzed hair, the stern brow, wide jaw, gaunt cheeks. His mouth was insidiously thin and unsmiling. The black sleeveless shirt that he slept in clung to the sculpted masses of muscle embedded in his torso. His face morphed into a scowl as one hand reached up and touched his cheek.
"I'm one ugly son of a bitch," he said almost inaudibly.
It was not that realization, however, that made Storm gag and lean over the toilet.
Sleep came easier afterward.
Morning arrived. Sigma Squad was already awake for it at 0600 hours sharp. They were in the Galley eating breakfast when Storm's comlink flashed red and beeped three times. Storm shut his eyes to mentally will the dread out of his stomach in lieu of the cup of coffee he was intent on finishing before he got up.
Puck, Tide, and Flare expectantly looked up from their toast and freeze-dried eggs to see their squad leader.
"I'll be back," Storm told them without actually looking at them. He turned to leave the Galley.
"Tell Sarge I say 'hey!'" Flare called facetiously after him.
Storm walked deliberately up the sleek hallway of the Crossex base, his eyes glued to the path and seeing no one else. New acquaintances sometimes made the mistake of greeting Storm in the halls before they learned after several attempts that Storm never responded. He was busy. No time for small talk, and when you greeted someone, such useless nuances were bound to happen.
Nobody said anything.
Storm squared himself in front of the door to Sarge's office. He simply hardened his gaze and stood with his arms behind his back, stiff at attention. Sarge would open the door when he was ready to yell himself hoarse.
There was a melodious ping which was a misleading prelude for the ensuing beating, then the door opened. Storm stepped into the office and snapped a rigid salute.
"Sigma-05 reporting, sir!"
"At ease," Sergeant Elias Kadlec said, motioning for Storm to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Storm sat, for the millionth time wishing that he could stand while being scolded; it made him feel less small. He placed his hands on his knees and looked stoically at Sergeant Kadlec. Storm's profile, CXS 1107-05, was open on the screen behind Sergeant Kadlec, his ugly mug staring at him from his ID picture.
Sarge looked down, drew a deep breath, and threaded his fingers on top of a folder laying on his desk. "Happy Birthday, Storm."
Storm's eyebrows lifted in bemusement. "Thank you, sir."
Sarge, smiling, leaned back in his chair and let it bounce with his weight. "You're eighteen today. Your squad is almost ready for its first real mission."
Storm simply waited for Sarge to go on.
"On everyone's eighteenth birthday, I ask them if they want to know anything about their families. Their real families. As an adult, it's time to let you know everything."
Storm considered this, but remained silent for several seconds.
"Well, Storm? What do you say?"
"I wouldn't know what to ask, sir."
Sarge did something peculiar: he chuckled. "You never were much for sentiments, Storm."
Sarge gave Storm an intense stare that made Storm squirm slightly in his seat, as it was a look that Storm had never seen on Sarge's face before. There was something almost soft about it, the way Sarge's green eyes were settled on him, not narrowed or angry, just... placid, slightly squinted as if there was a phantom smile on Sarge's face.
"I was actually rather disarmed by that quality of yours. You and your sister... you're both serious. You always have been, even when you were little." Sarge's eyes drifted to the ceiling and he seemed to have gone elsewhere for several seconds, or perhaps he wanted to pretend that Storm wasn't giving him a purposefully bored look. "I haven't been disappointed yet by my decision to make you squad leader. You've done an excellent job."
"Thank you, sir. But it's my birthday. Are you sure you're not just saying that?" Storm asked plainly.
Sarge chuckled again and leaned forward on the desk. "I'm sure." He looked down at the folder and opened it, flipping some papers. "Now, how about I just tell you everything that's in here?"
"Go right ahead, sir."
Sarge slipped on a pair of reading glasses, which under different circumstances would have made Storm mentally laugh, then began to read: "You were born Bruce Shepard just before your twin sister, Elisebeth Shepard. Your parents names are Craig and Wendy Shepard; you and your sister were their third and fourth child."
Sarge looked up at Storm, seeing that Storm had lowered his head and begun to stare at the floor between his feet. "Go on," Storm said after realizing Sarge had stopped because of him.
"You and your sister were conceived and bought by the military for this project," Sarge said carefully, now looking intently at Storm.
Storm raised his head and gave Sarge an incredulous look. "We were... bought?"
Sarge nodded grimly. "Bruce and Elisebeth Shepard were genetically enhanced to have traits favoring soldier-like qualities."
Storm could tell Sarge was reading straight from the file, now. "And that was legal?" Storm asked.
"'Was' and still is," Sarge said. His brow had furrowed with consternation when he noticed Storm's troubled look. "I'm sorry, Storm."
"Sorry for what? That my parents brought life into the galaxy to sell it to die?" Storm questioned bitterly.
Sarge let the folder drop from his hands and he shook his head, looking even more agitated by the second. "Storm, they did it to better the human race. They did it to protect--"
"Protect what?" Storm cut in. "The kids they wanted to keep?"
"All of us, Storm," Sarge said in a low voice. "Even you. You'll benefit from what you're going to do for the galaxy."
"If I don't die first," Storm muttered, looking down again at the floor.
"Storm," Sarge said gently after several seconds, "I can understand if you don't want to lead your squad into battle right away."
Storm raised his eyes dangerously. "With all due respect, sir, there's no way in hell I'm going to abandon my squad because of a bruise to my pride," he said very slowly, carefully. "I have a job to do, even if I didn't ask for it. But I'll be damned if I don't get it done, and done right."
Nodding, Sarge's eyes closed for a moment. "Very well, Storm. Is there anything else you would want to hear about?"
"Absolutely not, sir."
"Then you're dismissed. Tell your sister it's her turn."
"Yes, sir."
Storm stood and snapped a quick salute to Sarge before leaving the office. The door slid closed behind him, and Storm simply stood there as if he had forgotten which way led back to the Galley. Everything looked different, somehow. Ari, a young nurse in training that seemed to take a liking to Puck, noticed him standing there as she walked by. "Hello!" she said brightly.
"Hello," Storm said in a dazed response.
Ari stopped and smiled at him, looking like she had the face of a perfectly sculptured doll, her features soft. "It's your birthday today, isn't it?"
Storm nodded numbly.
"Happy birthday!" Ari said brightly. She gave him a hug, which Storm returned with one hand patting her awkwardly on the back. He stared over her shoulder at the opposite wall.
"Thanks," he said.
"Well, tell Tide I say 'happy birthday' too."
"Will do," Storm replied.
Ari left and Storm walked in the opposite direction, taking the long way back to the Galley where his squad was still waiting for him. He stopped short when he encountered the scene at the table.
Tide was sitting with her arms folded between Puck and Flare, her head adorned with a crown that had been cut out of white paper and decorated with highlighter markers. It read: "Birthday Queen."
"Storm," Tide said levelly, "leave now while you still have your dignity."
Puck grinned and said: "Well, he did just come back from Sarge's office."
"Puck," Storm said, looking wounded. "I wouldn't expect that coming from you. And on my birthday."
Puck wilted in his chair and wouldn't look up from the table at him, and it suddenly occurred to Storm that Puck thought he was being serious.
"I'm kidding, Puck," Storm said, trying to smile.
Puck chuckled nervously, and his uneasiness made Storm suddenly feel very small in front of his squad. At was at that moment that Flare reached over the table and put another paper hat on his head that read: "Birthday Boy."
"Uhm," Storm said awkwardly, "Tide, Sarge also wants to see you."
Tide tore off the paper crown and set it on the table, Flare looking devastated as she did so. "Bye, boys," she said, then took her leave of the Galley.
"So," Flare started, watching Storm as he sat himself down at the table, "what enlightening lectures did Sarge have for you on your birthday, big guy?"
Storm shrugged impartially. "He told me my name is Bruce."
Flare snorted and covered his mouth. "Bruce," he repeated, sniggering.
"I like Bruce," Puck said, propping up his elbows on the table. "It's a good name. At least it's not... Augusten or something, right?"
Storm started laughing. He was laughing so hard that he didn't see the strange looks that Flare and Puck gave him before they joined in laughing, hesitantly at first. Storm hit his fist on the table, trying to stop, then he bit the top of his hand and finally managed to calm down.
"Thanks, guys. I won't kick your asses in training today. How's that sound?"
"Divine," Puck said with a sigh of relief.
Flare put his arms behind his head and tipped back in his chair comfortably. "You sure are mellowing out in your old age, Storm."
"I hope so," Storm agreed quietly.
The lights went out at 2300 hours as they were programmed to do every night. A hazy, green light kept the room lightly illuminated as Puck typed quietly on his computer for another thirty minutes. Then, at length, Puck shut down the console and the light went away, and for the following ten seconds he was rustling around his bed until, finally, he settled in with a soft sigh. Flare turned over, his arm dangling unknowingly off of the side of the bunk, a disturbed snort escaping his sleepy throat. He made another noise, a sound that could have been a word, then he settled once more. Tide lied motionless on her own bunk, the back of her hand rested on her forehead, her other arm stretched across her stomach. She always slept through the night.
Storm listened for the calm, rhythmic breathing of Puck's sleep, and he knew he was alone in a room of four people. Storm quietly slipped his hands behind his head and stared at the bottom of Tide's bunked bed where there were pieces of paper taped so he could see them. Two were maps for their upcoming mission--their first mission; one was a picture of some blonde swimsuit model that Rooney found on the Net; and one was a piece of artwork on lined paper that read: "GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE!" It was written and decorated in various colors of highlighter marker, and in bottom corner, it was signed: "Love, Flare," in surprisingly elegant cursive. The latter two pictures were superfluous wastes of space that Storm meant to take down every time he got into bed, but somehow, every time he got up, the last moment his eyes looked at the bunk surface, the familiar pictures were just part of the scenery, the same as the fake wood-surface plastic stickers that covered much of the metal in the room.
The mind was a terrible thing to let get a hold of you. Storm spent many nights awake for hours after his exhausted squad mates went to sleep. Images played back through his head of the day's events like a holovid on repeat; he ran maneuvers over and over again, trying to remember where everyone was supposed to go, how fast they had to move, when to be silent, how to fight surreptitiously. Door breaching maneuvers, rapid entries, how to take a prisoner alive. Perfection could be obtained only through practice, Storm knew that much; but the squad would be so much more efficient if Storm could simply get everything right the first time.
It was easy for Storm to forget that Sarge was a kind man. The squads under his command loved him; the squad leaders did not. They respected Sergeant Elias Kadlec, and this respect was not earned from positive reinforcement in the form of candy rewards and pats on the head. The squad leaders respected Sarge because he demanded that they get the job done right. Nothing less than their best. And Storm wanted his best to be perfection.
That was what kept the squad alive. Perfection.
Storm squeezed his eyes shut, but only for a moment. He had a twisted feeling in his gut, the kind he felt nearly every night for the past several weeks that were leading up to Sigma Squad's first deployment. Tomorrow was another day of training. The pressure was mounting, collecting into a contorted heap in his gut. And Storm was no stranger to its presence. He was not in denial that such worrying was affecting him physically, either. Storm knew damn well that he could very easily literally worry himself sick. Many would see this as a glaring health problem--but Storm liked to think of it as a solution.
It was all part of the job description, after all.
The worry in his gut was his fuel for excellence. For perfection. It pained him, sometimes terribly, but to him it was a very small price to pay for perfection. For prowess and skill and progress and, above all, the lives of his squad. This pain was the siphoned danger from their mission, the invisible protector. Yes, it was a significantly small price.
Storm rose gingerly from the bed and ambled quietly to the lavatory, shutting the door and flicking on the light once it closed. He saw himself in the mirror, his sister's piercing blue eyes, his dark, buzzed hair, the stern brow, wide jaw, gaunt cheeks. His mouth was insidiously thin and unsmiling. The black sleeveless shirt that he slept in clung to the sculpted masses of muscle embedded in his torso. His face morphed into a scowl as one hand reached up and touched his cheek.
"I'm one ugly son of a bitch," he said almost inaudibly.
It was not that realization, however, that made Storm gag and lean over the toilet.
Sleep came easier afterward.
Morning arrived. Sigma Squad was already awake for it at 0600 hours sharp. They were in the Galley eating breakfast when Storm's comlink flashed red and beeped three times. Storm shut his eyes to mentally will the dread out of his stomach in lieu of the cup of coffee he was intent on finishing before he got up.
Puck, Tide, and Flare expectantly looked up from their toast and freeze-dried eggs to see their squad leader.
"I'll be back," Storm told them without actually looking at them. He turned to leave the Galley.
"Tell Sarge I say 'hey!'" Flare called facetiously after him.
Storm walked deliberately up the sleek hallway of the Crossex base, his eyes glued to the path and seeing no one else. New acquaintances sometimes made the mistake of greeting Storm in the halls before they learned after several attempts that Storm never responded. He was busy. No time for small talk, and when you greeted someone, such useless nuances were bound to happen.
Nobody said anything.
Storm squared himself in front of the door to Sarge's office. He simply hardened his gaze and stood with his arms behind his back, stiff at attention. Sarge would open the door when he was ready to yell himself hoarse.
There was a melodious ping which was a misleading prelude for the ensuing beating, then the door opened. Storm stepped into the office and snapped a rigid salute.
"Sigma-05 reporting, sir!"
"At ease," Sergeant Elias Kadlec said, motioning for Storm to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Storm sat, for the millionth time wishing that he could stand while being scolded; it made him feel less small. He placed his hands on his knees and looked stoically at Sergeant Kadlec. Storm's profile, CXS 1107-05, was open on the screen behind Sergeant Kadlec, his ugly mug staring at him from his ID picture.
Sarge looked down, drew a deep breath, and threaded his fingers on top of a folder laying on his desk. "Happy Birthday, Storm."
Storm's eyebrows lifted in bemusement. "Thank you, sir."
Sarge, smiling, leaned back in his chair and let it bounce with his weight. "You're eighteen today. Your squad is almost ready for its first real mission."
Storm simply waited for Sarge to go on.
"On everyone's eighteenth birthday, I ask them if they want to know anything about their families. Their real families. As an adult, it's time to let you know everything."
Storm considered this, but remained silent for several seconds.
"Well, Storm? What do you say?"
"I wouldn't know what to ask, sir."
Sarge did something peculiar: he chuckled. "You never were much for sentiments, Storm."
Sarge gave Storm an intense stare that made Storm squirm slightly in his seat, as it was a look that Storm had never seen on Sarge's face before. There was something almost soft about it, the way Sarge's green eyes were settled on him, not narrowed or angry, just... placid, slightly squinted as if there was a phantom smile on Sarge's face.
"I was actually rather disarmed by that quality of yours. You and your sister... you're both serious. You always have been, even when you were little." Sarge's eyes drifted to the ceiling and he seemed to have gone elsewhere for several seconds, or perhaps he wanted to pretend that Storm wasn't giving him a purposefully bored look. "I haven't been disappointed yet by my decision to make you squad leader. You've done an excellent job."
"Thank you, sir. But it's my birthday. Are you sure you're not just saying that?" Storm asked plainly.
Sarge chuckled again and leaned forward on the desk. "I'm sure." He looked down at the folder and opened it, flipping some papers. "Now, how about I just tell you everything that's in here?"
"Go right ahead, sir."
Sarge slipped on a pair of reading glasses, which under different circumstances would have made Storm mentally laugh, then began to read: "You were born Bruce Shepard just before your twin sister, Elisebeth Shepard. Your parents names are Craig and Wendy Shepard; you and your sister were their third and fourth child."
Sarge looked up at Storm, seeing that Storm had lowered his head and begun to stare at the floor between his feet. "Go on," Storm said after realizing Sarge had stopped because of him.
"You and your sister were conceived and bought by the military for this project," Sarge said carefully, now looking intently at Storm.
Storm raised his head and gave Sarge an incredulous look. "We were... bought?"
Sarge nodded grimly. "Bruce and Elisebeth Shepard were genetically enhanced to have traits favoring soldier-like qualities."
Storm could tell Sarge was reading straight from the file, now. "And that was legal?" Storm asked.
"'Was' and still is," Sarge said. His brow had furrowed with consternation when he noticed Storm's troubled look. "I'm sorry, Storm."
"Sorry for what? That my parents brought life into the galaxy to sell it to die?" Storm questioned bitterly.
Sarge let the folder drop from his hands and he shook his head, looking even more agitated by the second. "Storm, they did it to better the human race. They did it to protect--"
"Protect what?" Storm cut in. "The kids they wanted to keep?"
"All of us, Storm," Sarge said in a low voice. "Even you. You'll benefit from what you're going to do for the galaxy."
"If I don't die first," Storm muttered, looking down again at the floor.
"Storm," Sarge said gently after several seconds, "I can understand if you don't want to lead your squad into battle right away."
Storm raised his eyes dangerously. "With all due respect, sir, there's no way in hell I'm going to abandon my squad because of a bruise to my pride," he said very slowly, carefully. "I have a job to do, even if I didn't ask for it. But I'll be damned if I don't get it done, and done right."
Nodding, Sarge's eyes closed for a moment. "Very well, Storm. Is there anything else you would want to hear about?"
"Absolutely not, sir."
"Then you're dismissed. Tell your sister it's her turn."
"Yes, sir."
Storm stood and snapped a quick salute to Sarge before leaving the office. The door slid closed behind him, and Storm simply stood there as if he had forgotten which way led back to the Galley. Everything looked different, somehow. Ari, a young nurse in training that seemed to take a liking to Puck, noticed him standing there as she walked by. "Hello!" she said brightly.
"Hello," Storm said in a dazed response.
Ari stopped and smiled at him, looking like she had the face of a perfectly sculptured doll, her features soft. "It's your birthday today, isn't it?"
Storm nodded numbly.
"Happy birthday!" Ari said brightly. She gave him a hug, which Storm returned with one hand patting her awkwardly on the back. He stared over her shoulder at the opposite wall.
"Thanks," he said.
"Well, tell Tide I say 'happy birthday' too."
"Will do," Storm replied.
Ari left and Storm walked in the opposite direction, taking the long way back to the Galley where his squad was still waiting for him. He stopped short when he encountered the scene at the table.
Tide was sitting with her arms folded between Puck and Flare, her head adorned with a crown that had been cut out of white paper and decorated with highlighter markers. It read: "Birthday Queen."
"Storm," Tide said levelly, "leave now while you still have your dignity."
Puck grinned and said: "Well, he did just come back from Sarge's office."
"Puck," Storm said, looking wounded. "I wouldn't expect that coming from you. And on my birthday."
Puck wilted in his chair and wouldn't look up from the table at him, and it suddenly occurred to Storm that Puck thought he was being serious.
"I'm kidding, Puck," Storm said, trying to smile.
Puck chuckled nervously, and his uneasiness made Storm suddenly feel very small in front of his squad. At was at that moment that Flare reached over the table and put another paper hat on his head that read: "Birthday Boy."
"Uhm," Storm said awkwardly, "Tide, Sarge also wants to see you."
Tide tore off the paper crown and set it on the table, Flare looking devastated as she did so. "Bye, boys," she said, then took her leave of the Galley.
"So," Flare started, watching Storm as he sat himself down at the table, "what enlightening lectures did Sarge have for you on your birthday, big guy?"
Storm shrugged impartially. "He told me my name is Bruce."
Flare snorted and covered his mouth. "Bruce," he repeated, sniggering.
"I like Bruce," Puck said, propping up his elbows on the table. "It's a good name. At least it's not... Augusten or something, right?"
Storm started laughing. He was laughing so hard that he didn't see the strange looks that Flare and Puck gave him before they joined in laughing, hesitantly at first. Storm hit his fist on the table, trying to stop, then he bit the top of his hand and finally managed to calm down.
"Thanks, guys. I won't kick your asses in training today. How's that sound?"
"Divine," Puck said with a sigh of relief.
Flare put his arms behind his head and tipped back in his chair comfortably. "You sure are mellowing out in your old age, Storm."
"I hope so," Storm agreed quietly.
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